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I’m Wearing Stretch Pants. I Can Do Anything.

Princesszyrtec recently celebrated a birthday late last month, and as is customary, she had to renew the registrations on her cars. This year, the Year of the Rabbit, she also had to renew her driver’s license. Unlike the speedy hare, she procrastinated on the all-important renewals until a few days ago.

She thought it would be a great idea to forgo several nights of sleep prior to the DMV debacle, and neglect to apply any makeup. Rather than use her very expensive round brush to effect a salon-style blowout, she went au natural.

Au big mistake.

The resultant offending image plastered on her license was enough to send her into a tailspin of despondency. In direct defiance of her breakfast of prunes and oatmeal, she directed her car (now sporting an updated sticker) to Sidelines II, the nearest and dearest of local sports bars. An added bonus: Princesszyrtec’s sister works there.

Enter menu. What to choose….what to choose. There’s the ever-popular Fowl Balls–naked or breaded. One of her favorite dishes is their Thai Chicken salad with a crock of steamed broccoli and cauliflower on the side.

Wait a minute. I’m at a bar, for crying out loud. Gimme some meat!

Enter the Knockout. A poor man’s Luther burger, this concoction (heh, I said “tion”) slaps a half-pound grilled steakburger between two grilled cheese and bacon sandwiches. Now, before you say “but PZ–can I call you PZ?–that’s nothing more than a cheesburger with bacon” let me be the first to tell you what’s what, mmmkaaayyyy?

Each grilled cheese sandwich has four sides of buttery grilled toastiness enclosing the all-american cheesiness, which is much thicker than the mere single slice that would normally reside off-kilter atop a mundane burger. Furthermore, once a slice of cheese is in direct and intimate contact with a burger, the burger’s grease quotient repels the cheese slice, and rather than sinking your teeth into a perfectly proportioned blend of meat and cheese, you get slimy buns with slidey cheese in one mouthful and dry burger in the next.

I call bullshit!

Just imagine having all perfect flavors in perfect proportions in your perfect little open mouth. Well, I didn’t have to imagine it — I lived it baby, yeah!

First bite taken. Consensus: WIN.

Perhaps you missed it in the description, but the trifecta of awesomeness was achieved with the addition of bacon. It’s cooked into the grilled cheese sandwiches, and thus held sweet prisoners of love by the thick cheese layer.

I haz a baconz!

I’m kinda jumping ahead of myself here. See, I arrived to this fine local establishment feeling a bit out-of-sorts. My ego was bruised and needed a boost. I’d lost my Mojo baby, yeaaah!

Enter: Mojo Dip. A creamy concoction of feta cheese, hot sauce, garlic, and other goodies with fried homemade pita bread with which to scoop-n-shovel. Oh, my Mojo was back!

Yes. Yes I licked the plate clean afterwards. Are you happy now?

After the licking, the eating in earnest commenced to commence. I knocked myself out. And when I abandoned those utensils that were just holding me back — well, you know what happened then? I ate! I ate like the wind blows.

And when I was tired, I paused. When I was thirsty, I drank. And when I had to, you know, I went. And then, suddenly, I didn’t feel like eating anymore. So I stopped.

During that stoppage, I was regaled with a dance from my sister. Yes, it was tableside. No, poles were not involved. No! Laps weren’t either. It was — the Cabbage Patch. Yeah, she rocked it out for her big sis.

And then, like magic — MOJO Magic — I picked up the Knockout and brought it to my lips. My dining companion looked on in amazement tinged with either disgust, despair, or dismay, and said: “Are you really going to eat that?!”

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I refer you now to the lovely title of this post.

P.S.

Should you fear the caloric content of such a feast as I have laid at your feet, then you may burn off aforementioned calories by becoming your very own Lord of the Dance.

4 comments to I’m Wearing Stretch Pants. I Can Do Anything.

This sandwich freakishly reminds me of a perennial favorite of Cleveland: Melt Bar and Grilled. Said establishment once offered a meatloaf sandwich. I once partook in said sandwich.

Said sandwich was two, one inch slices of bread (garlic toast even!), a one inch slice of meatloaf, coated in a homemade chipotle barbecue sauce, and topped with mashed potatoes. Yes. Mash inside the sandwich.

Oh. And forgot about the pile of fries also served along side.

Less bacon, still delish.

In fact, skip the stretch pants, hook me up with one of those classy muumuus I used to see on the Jerry Springer show.

Not that I’m trying to one up you, falquan, but I’ve made and eaten many a mashed potato sandwich, well into my adulthood, too.

Nothing fancy like meatloaf or homemade sauces.

Just thick, stiff, lumpy, salty, buttery mashed potatoes, perhaps some cheese or pepper or corn, and two pieces of bread. Or three, if I made too much and it wouldn’t fit into one sandwich. Then, I would take the third piece of bread, scoop the remnants out of the bowl into it, fold it in half, and add extra butter that didn’t quite melt. It was to make that faux-sandwich feel better about itself.

Before I crammed it into my mouth.

As I write this, I’m eating a Godiva dark chocolate bar infused with orange, but I’d throw it out right now if presented with a mashed potato sandwich. [read: wrap the remainder carefully in foil and hide in my sock drawer until another month rolls around to mess with me]